“Yes,” answered the trapper, “a hoss jist as white as milk, ’cept it had a patch or two of black upon its flanks, an’ the prettiest beast you ever saw.”
Could it be possible, that the Crow chief had the bravado to come into the fort in disguise, and right after his attack upon the trappers? Dave looked around for the Indian; he had disappeared! The guide quietly left the little knot of people and went toward the bank of the river. The white horse was gone; the Indian as well. Far in the distance, on the trail leading up the river, Dave saw the stranger mounted on the white steed, riding at full speed.
“Curse you, red-skin!” he muttered; “you’ve been after no good. I’ll meet you one of these days, and I’ll put a bullet through you, though you do look enough like me to be my brother.”
The young man rejoined the little knot of people around the trapper, who were eagerly discussing the particulars of the late attack.
Dave drew Abe aside, and told him his suspicions. Abe heard all with a grave shake of the head.
“I had an idea that that Injun was a Crow,” he said. “Some way or other I can generally tell ’em: but, though I hate the whole nation and never yet spared a Crow that I got within rifle range of, yet I should dreffully hate to put a bullet through this fellow, for he looks so much like you.”
“You think then that I am right in my suspicions?”
“Sart’in, you’ve hit the right nail on the head. That Injun was the ‘White Vulture,’ the greatest fighting-man of all the Crow nation, though he’s a mighty young brave.”
“He can’t be older than I am,” said Dave.
“No, I should say he wasn’t. I first heard tell on him about three years ago, when I were up trading in the Blackfoot country. A party of Blackfeet made a raid down into the Crow region, an’ at the first on it, they whipped the Crows right out of their moccasins; they took this ‘White Vulture’ prisoner, tied him to a tree to torture him a little, but, before they lit the fire under him they amused themselves by seeing how near they could come to his head throwing hatchets and scalping-knives at him in their devilish fashion. Well, some way they hadn’t tied him very strong and one of the hatchets, thrown carelessly, cut one of the thongs that bound him. In a twinkling he burst the rest of the bonds, seized one of the hatchets, laid about him right an’ left, killed five of the Blackfeet braves almost instantly and then made a rush for life and escaped, although the whole party gave chase. Then, after he got back to his tribe he collected a few warriors and hung about the rear of the retreating Blackfeet, picking off a man hyar and there, until at last their retreat became a rout and they hurried north as if the devil himself was at their heels. Well, I were in the Blackfeet country when the party got back, an’ of course I hearn all about it. The next year, the ‘White Vulture’ returned the visit of the Blackfeet and raided all through their country, with a small party too, hardly losing a man. From that day to this his fame as a great brave has been increasing; the Crow Indians themselves regard him with superstition; they think he’s a great medicine-man; they don’t believe that the bullet was ever run that can kill him; in fact, to-day he’s the head-chief and the greatest fighting man in all the Crow nation.”